Page:Ambarvalia - Clough (1849).djvu/84

 Thus, as a vague deceitful Muse Its melody may re-infuse Into a heart that hath declined From the pure guidance of the mind. O limbs, whose life is it ye live? Which now no more your service give To a considerant human soul! Is it the wind which doth control This graceful twining of your play? Or do mild spirits, gently gay, Thus prompt your motions to obey The self-same impulse which persuades The woodbine, deep in oaken shades, Her sturdy pillar to embrace With movements of such matchless grace Or bids the skylark, of pure sound Extracted from the dewy ground While morning yet is all divine, About the fleeing stars entwine, In modulations soft as strong, The bright inevitable line Of its elastic song?

Poor Child! when Fancy's all is said, What art thou but a creature dead,— Dead to the real life of life,